


Do-Over, Done Over

by LondonLioness



Series: The Experience Verse [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aspie Sherlock (brief mention), Do not have to read the original, Egregious abuse of quantum mechanics, Expansion of and divergence from Do-Over, I hate tagging, Panic Attack, The biggest what-if ever, Time Travel ... or is it?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-14
Updated: 2019-10-17
Packaged: 2020-12-09 02:10:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20987096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LondonLioness/pseuds/LondonLioness
Summary: "I need you to focus, Sherlock," said Mycroft. "What exactly did you experience?"I tip my head back and stare at the ceiling a moment as I contemplate my answer. Eh, play along, why not? "Exactly? OnexactlyAugust 18, 2015, I fell asleep on this sofa, and I awoke onexactlyApril 23, 2010.""And in the interim, you lived five full years, one day after another, in sequence?"Why was he hammering on this? "Yes, five years, day by day. I could write a journal if you want.""That's ... unexpected."A sudden hope blooms in my chest. Maybe I'm not insane. "Saying it's unexpected implies you expected something else. What's going on, Mycroft?"





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is an expansion of my story "Do-Over" with a very different ending. You do not have to read the original to understand this (although I'd be chuffed if you did!) If you have read the original and do not care for repetition, just skip Chapter One. The storylines converge after the boys decide to go out. In this one, Sherlock really does hop in the shower as opposed to going back to sleep. 
> 
> Well, it's me, so you know there's lots of angst ahead, but this time it's a happy ending. Honest, I'm talking rainbows and fluffy unicorns here. Promise!!
> 
> Enjoy!

I woke to early morning sunlight filtering through the drapes. Apparently, I had fallen asleep on the sofa. From the angle of the light, it was barely past dawn; I could go to my proper bed and try for a couple more hours. Before I could so much as stretch the kinks from my limbs, however, my attention was arrested by the wall across from me. 

Something about it was wrong. 

I blinked the remaining sleep fog away as I sat up to ponder this minor mystery. It looked like the same old wallpaper... 

Ummm, yes. The same _old_ wallpaper. 

When John and I had renovated the flat, we had found the same pattern easily enough, but it was no longer available in the same colour. The new paper was closer to a hunter green than an olive. 

So how was olive wallpaper greeting me this morning? 

I grabbed my phone, meaning to use the flashlight function to examine the wallpaper more closely, and nearly dropped it. It was filling my hand wrong. A cursory glance confirmed that this was the phone I had had three upgrades ago. 

Curiouser and curiouser, as the saying goes. I sat perfectly still, moving only my eyes as I catalogued all the inconsistencies in the room. The rug was the old, shabby one. When John had recreated the smiley face, he had placed it six centimetres too far to the right. Now it was back, and the paint along the lower right rim was smeared just ... _so._ John's laptop was actually his previous laptop. I absorbed all this, then with shaking fingers, unlocked the phone screen and read the date: 

23 April, 2010. 

Five years ago. 

Impossible. Very well, eliminate the impossible. What remained? An elaborate hoax? Mycroft's payback for the bleeding portraits and the clown? Must be, he would be the only one able to alter the phone signal. Pranks were hardly his style, but perhaps Greg had talked him into it. If so, the joke was on them: I had iron-clad proof it was not 2010. I rucked up my t-shirt, and my mind whited out for a moment, so great was the shock. 

The scar from the gunshot wound was gone. 

That wasn't all. Frantically, I felt along my shoulders and upper back. My skin was porcelain; not a scar remained. 

I heard footsteps descending the stairs. John, of course, but John from back then, with his hair cut short and the stress lines that had so cruelly aged him completely erased. "You're up early," he mumbled, then did a small double-take and peered more closely. "You all right? You look like you've seen a ghost." 

"There are no ghosts," I replied reflexively. Although, apparently, there was time travel. No, that hadn't been proved yet. "I need a medical opinion," I ventured as I followed him into the kitchen. "Can scars just disappear?" 

John flipped on the kettle and started some toast as he answered. "Certainly some superficial scars can fade away to nearly nothing, to where you wouldn't see them unless you knew exactly where to look." 

"More extensive than that," I clarified. "Say, the scar from a gunshot wound or a branding iron." 

"Huh. It would take some plastic surgery..." 

"No surgery," I insisted. "Got to sleep with the scar, wake up without." 

"Impossible," John declared. "This for a case? A body's been positively identified except for missing scars?" 

Close enough. I nodded distractedly while John served up toast, marmalade, and tea. I saw his eyes light up with an idea, and forestalled the obvious. 

"It's not twins." 

"Sure?" 

I nodded and took a mouthful of tea, studying him. It had been only five years, but what a difference. He looked _so_ much younger! I was suddenly consumed by the need for a mirror. 

"Need the loo," I mumbled, pushing away from the table. 

"Should I come with you today?" John called after me. 

"No," I answered, staring into the eyes of a younger, desperately confused Sherlock Holmes. I was at the end of my deductive rope, which meant there was only place left to go. 

  


Breakfast was being served in the Stranger's Room at the Diogenes Club, and I surprised Mycroft just as he was about to tuck into his Eggs Benedict. "Brother mine, to what do I owe the pleasure?" 

I had meant to dispassionately list my observations since I woke up this morning, but what popped out of my mouth was, "I'm scared." 

Mycroft's gaze snapped to me, observing, and whatever he saw must have disturbed him greatly, because he laid down his fork. "Explain." 

I sat down across from him, and Mycroft handed me a cigarette, lit it. Neither of us missed how my hands were shaking. 

"I find myself faced with the impossible," I ground out. "It cannot be true." 

"Then it isn't," Mycroft replied with perfect equanimity. 

Iron-clad logic, that. Yet... "Yet, the evidence is overwhelming," I continued. 

My brother pushed aside his eggs and picked up a blueberry scone to toy with instead. "Very well, let us stipulate that this unnamed impossibility is true. What follows?" 

What indeed? That was the heart of the matter, wasn't it? If this were true, it presented me with an unparalleled opportunity. I had, right now, in my head, the information necessary to secure Eurus, neutralise Moriarty and dismantle his web. There would be no fake death, no torture. John would never suffer grief at my hands or duplicity at Mary's. So many lives to be saved: the old lady in the Semtex vest, the governor at Sherrinford. 

And yet: What about Rosie? I adored that little girl, but in this new world I would create she could not exist. How could I choose to wipe her from existence? But could I really follow a script for the next five years? Could I say and do the exact same things in the exact same ways; make the same choices knowing the results? There was the butterfly effect to consider: the smallest deviation could produce a cascade of enormous consequences. Indeed, I had already changed things by coming there this morning, instead of whatever I had done that other 23rd April. For example, the car that had waited an extra couple of seconds as I traversed the zebra crossing: were those two seconds the difference between getting to work safely and being involved in a fatal accident? There was no way to know. 

That rationalisation aside, though, the simple fact was: I couldn't. Couldn't hear John scream my name as I took that leap; couldn't paste a smile on my face and help plan a wedding that would send him into the arms of an assassin. The first time, I had been bumbling along, making choices in the heat of the moment; this time, it would be with malice aforethought. And I. just. _couldn't._

Is it possible to grieve a child that will never exist? I did, at that moment. I dropped my head into my hand pinched back tears. "I'm sorry, Rosie," I whispered. 

Who's Rosie?" Mycroft demanded. 

"Nobody," I replied, and the word had the force of a nail being driven into a coffin. With an effort, I composed myself and looked up to meet my brother's concerned frown. 

"Where's the list?" he asked. 

Well, that was a fair assumption, given that I was raving about impossibilities and being so emotional. "I'm clean," I assured him. I made a "V" of two fingers on my right hand and gestured towards him. He obediently handed over another cigarette. I lit it and took a long drag before continuing. "There is, however, a distinct possibility that I am insane. If the next words I say don't mean anything to you, I will cheerfully submit myself for psychiatric treatment." I had his full attention, so I braced myself and dropped the bomb: "I have reason to believe security at Sherrinford is compromised." 

A touch; a palpable touch. Mycroft's eyes widened, and he turned an even pastier white than usual. "Sherrinford," he echoed. 

"Where Eurus is," I agreed. "You want to completely overhaul the security, Mycroft. Remember how "talented" she is. If you don't lock it down, now, double-tight, in less than five years she'll have the place under her thumb and be able to come and go freely. As in, she'll visit me and we'll spend a lovely evening together walking through London. We'll discuss suicidal ideation and I'll buy her chips." 

"What in the world are you on about?" 

"Doesn't matter," I told him. "I have quite a lot of information for you, and I want you to check it out. If it doesn't check out, then I'm crazy. But if it does -- well. Then we have the chance to do so much good. 

"Start with this: Victor's bones are in a disused well on the east side of the house at Musgrave. We need to get them out of there; make sure he has a proper burial, yeah?" 

"In a well," Mycroft breathed. "Of course: 'drowned Redbeard.'"

"Just so. Next: James Moriarty. Don't insult me by pretending you don't know the name. The cabbie that perpetrated the serial suicides, Jefferson Hope, said Moriarty was my fan. But is was Eurus who focused his attention on me, and you introduced him to Eurus." 

"You have that the wrong way around," my brother remarked. "Eurus noted his fascination with you. He's an eel, that one. A person of interest in numerous affairs, but there's never a single scrap of solid evidence we can use against him. He's a shadow. Eurus hinted she might be able to manoeuvre him into the light." 

I stifled a rueful laugh at that, because she had done that, hadn't she? Out loud, I said, "Your person of interest is the spider in the centre of a vast web of criminal enterprises. He runs guns, drugs, and human trafficking operations on an international scale. He also has a nifty sideline he calls "consulting criminal": fixing things for people with more money than morals. I've got detailed intel on all of it. Let me use your computer; by this afternoon, you'll have everything you need to take him down forever." 

"How can you have this intel?" Mycroft demanded. 

"I can't. It's impossible." I sat back and watched my brother absorb this. Like me, he has no patience for flights of fancy, so when I saw his lips forming a question, I aborted it. I could not allow this opportunity to devolve into a debate on time travel. Instead, I leaned forward, caught his eye and said with all the sincerity I could muster, "Let me make this report." 

"Very well." He installed me in his office and left me to it. I spent the next ten hours banging out every detail I had learned in the two years I had spent dismantling Moriarty's web.

I made my way home that evening physically drained but almost floating with happiness. The future stretched ahead of us unmarred by the long shadow the East Wind had cast. I had included Culverton-Smith in my report, so he would be locked away, too. Magnussen alone remained, but I knew the truth about Appledore now, so he couldn't blindside me. 

We were free. 

I walked into 221B to see John putting away some groceries. He turned to face me, and seeing his expression, so open and trusting, brought home the full enormity of it. Every emotion this day had loosed in me came bubbling to the surface and boiling over, so I was literally laughing and crying at the same time. 

John's expression changed to alarm and he rushed over. "Sherlock? Hey, Sherlock, shh, shh." He divested me of my coat and guided me to my chair, coaxing me to sit. Then he pulled his own chair close, so he could lay a grounding hand on my forearm while I pulled myself together. 

"Can you talk about it?" he asked. 

"I've been with Mycroft all day," I explained. "There's a dangerous criminal. The thought was that I would have to go undercover to take him down. It would've been a lengthy mission, possibly up to two years." 

"Wow. I would have missed you." 

"It gets worse," I added. "In order to go undercover, I would have had to fake my death. No one except Mycroft could know the truth, not even you." 

John looked stricken. "In that case, I'm _very_ glad a different plan was chosen. But I still don't quite get the tears?" 

The impossibility. _Rosie._ But I had to consider carefully how much of that to tell John, so for the present, I demurred, "Some details are classified. Suffice it to say, I feel as though I literally got my life back today." I grinned at a sudden idea. "We should go to Angelo's." 

"Great." 

"Have to grab a quick shower," I said and retired to my bedroom. I stripped off my shirt and twisted to look at my back in the mirror: pristine. Out of sheer joy, I fell backwards on the bed. My gaze fell on my inside elbow and the shiny silver lines that denoted old track marks. _Superficial scars can fade away to nearly nothing._ I'd be staying clean this time, too. With a happy sigh, I indulged in a luxurious stretch, then hopped into the shower.


	2. Chapter 2

I awoke early again the next morning, and in what was to become a daily ritual, rucked up my t-shirt to check my torso. 

No scar. 

I conducted my ablutions quickly, then went to the kitchen to start breakfast. I pride myself on timing it perfectly, and sure enough, I could hear John coming down the stairs just as I was finishing up. I turned from the stove beaming, ready to say good morning to Rosie cradled in John's arms. 

Only, or course, she wasn't there. 

The fact of her absence hit me like a punch to the gut. I turned away swiftly, suddenly finding it very necessary to stir the eggs.

"Breakfast?" John exclaimed with a delighted laugh. "Since when?" 

"I can cook," I replied, hoping he would interpret any roughness in my voice as defensiveness. "It's only applied chemistry, after all." 

"Oh, sure, sure." He lifted the lid on the small saucepan I had on the back burner. "Porridge, too?" he wondered, for out of sheer habit, I had made porridge for Rosie. 

Contingency plan," I mumbled. I plated the food and sat down, trying to act natural; trying to ignore the sorrow that threatened to swallow me whole. The worst of it was, I realised, the _completeness_ of her loss: I didn't have so much as a photograph or a favourite plushie to remember her by. I ate a couple of bites, which went down like stones. John was prattling on about something, but I couldn't hear him. Without preamble, I pushed away from the table. 

"I need to think." 

I retreated to the couch, where I wedged myself in the corner, drew my knees up to my chest, and entered my mind palace. I was so sick at heart that for a long moment, all I could do was stand in the front hallway. Finally gathering my wits, I went to Rosie's room. This was a fairly accurate reproduction of her space in the flat, which was admittedly a bit slapdash. I spent some time making it perfect for her. I brightened the colour and made sure morning sunshine was streaming into the room through the lacy curtains. The old carpet was rather worn; I refreshed it, making the pile plush. I added a couple of Beatrix Potter prints to the walls and made sure her toy box was stocked with all her favourite things. Then I freshened the paint on her crib and dresser and added some honeybee appliques. Finally, I gave her a music box in the shape of a French carousel with gaily painted horses, which played the lullaby I had composed for her.

Redecorating done, I sat in the rocking chair and concentrated on conjuring Rosie herself. I wanted every single detail I could recall: the bright gold, wispy curls, the dimple in her right cheek, the precious creases on the insides of her elbows and knees, her chubby little feet. I got the weight of her just right, her infectious, gurgling laugh, that wonderful clean-baby smell. I took my time, taking inventory of her rosebud mouth, dimpled knuckles, and soft pink tummy, then I changed the sunlight to moonlight and dressed her in her favourite fleecy footed jammies. I settled her in my lap and rocked until she grew soft and heavy in my arms. 

I stood up then, giving her a last, soft hug before I laid her in her crib, drawing the pink and yellow quilt up to her chin. I brushed the backs of my fingers across one plump cheek, whispering, "You'll be safe here, my little Rosebud. Uncle Sherlock will never forget you." 

_"Sherlock!"_

That was Mycroft's voice, tinged with exasperation, as if he'd been trying to get my attention for some time. Reluctantly, I left the mind palace to see the man himself standing over me.

"Ah, back with us, " he purred. "Time for you to stop alarming Dr. Watson now, brother mine." 

"Alarming?" Truly, John did look somewhat concerned. "I was in my mind palace; he knows I do that." 

"Yes, but this time, you were rocking and --" he leaned forward and brushed my cheek, then showed me his wet fingertips -- "weeping. Care to explain?" 

"I do not," I spat. "You may monitor my every move, but the inside of my head is mine alone." My attention was arrested suddenly by a box, about the size of a picnic cooler, resting on the coffee table. It took no great feat of deduction to realise what such a box (_ossuary,_ the dictionary in my head supplied) might contain. I nodded toward it. "That," I stammered, my mouth suddenly gone dry. "That's ... remains? Victor?" 

"Yes," Mycroft confirmed. I reached for the lid, and he grabbed my wrist to forestall me. "Sherlock, it's just bones." 

"I need to see!" He released me, and I opened the box. The bones were the colour of strong tea from having been immersed in water. I traced the curve of the cranium and lifted the delicate fan of fingers, running my thumb over them as if offering comfort to these brittle fragments. "I'm sorry, Victor," I choked. "So sorry I couldn't find you." 

Mycroft spoke firmly. "Sherlock, look how tiny those bones are. You were the same age. Of course you couldn't find him." 

I nodded, accepting this small comfort. In my peripheral vision, I could see John, hovering, unsure whether to stay or go. I looked over at him. "Victor was the boy next door when I was six. My best friend -- my only friend. We played pirates." John quirked a small smile at that. "One day, we were playing and Victor disappeared. We searched and searched and never found a trace. As it turns out, there was an old, disused well on the property."

"Jesus," John breathed. He had, of course, jumped to the conclusion that the death was accidental, and I chose not to disabuse him of it. 

"He must have been so frightened," I rasped. "All alone in that cold, dark water." John reached for me, but I surprised all of use by stepping forward to my brother for comfort. I felt him stiffen in surprise, then he essayed a couple of awkward pats on my back. _Of course,_ I realized, _at this time, our relationship was rather fraught._ I pushed away and mumbled, "Sorry. Guess I flashed on our childhood, before --" I sketched a vague wave in his direction -- "_that_ happened." 

"Hmm, yes. I suppose an outpouring of sentiment is normal, under the circumstances." He meant 'normal' as an insult, but I couldn't be arsed to rise to his bait. 

"The Trevors?" 

"Mr. Trevor passed away four years ago. Mrs. Trevor sold the estate and moved in with her sister here in London, quite close by, in fact. She's expecting me at one. I thought you'd like to come." 

"Yes, of course. I'll get dressed." I started for my room, then paused. "What time is it now?" 

"Half eleven. You've plenty of time." 

The next few days were a blur of activity. Mrs. Trevor arranged a small but elegant funeral, and Victor was interred in the family mausoleum next to his father. Mrs. Trevor asked me to eulogise my erstwhile playmate, and I must have done it right, because she hugged me afterwards.


	3. Chapter 3

The day after the funeral, I woke to the blackest of black moods crouching over me. The contrast to my elation of a few days previous could not be greater. Mrs. Trevor's raw grief at Victor's death mirrored my own anguish at Rosie's -- absence. Now I understood what my hasty decision in Mycroft's office had cost. The thought tearing endlessly through my brain was: _I've done it again. With the best of intentions, I've torn John Watson's life apart. And this time, I've deprived him of so much. How do I face him now?_

_Have to, though. Have to go out there and act normal._ I put on my best brave face. _Into battle._

John was in the kitchen already. I knew that if I tried to smile, it would come out a rictus, so I merely nodded a greeting and slumped in my chair, hoping he would interpret my lack of animation as tiredness. "Kettle's just boiled," he announced unnecessarily, and went to go back to his room, tossing, "Forgot my phone," over his shoulder. 

He was back in less than a minute, just as I was stirring the sugar into my tea. "Schedule's been changed; I don't have to go in today. Why don't you dig around in your 'in' box and find us a case? Let's get back in the swing of things, yeah?" He said all this far too casually. I put down my spoon and studied him, then realized belatedly that once freed of its occupation, my right hand had unconsciously started to scratch -- no, _dig_ at the crook of my left elbow. I curled the traitorous appendage into a loose fist and lightly dropped it to the table: _Busted._

"Deduction," I offered. "The schedule didn't get changed; you called in so you could babysit me." 

"I wouldn't use the word babysit, but I thought being alone might not be the best thing for you right now." I winced away from the pity in his eyes; God, I hate that. "I'm guessing funerals aren't your favourite thing." 

"It's not about Victor," my mouth said before my brain could catch up. Why had I said that? Grieving Victor would be the perfect explanation for my odd behaviour, at least for a couple of days. And yet, I was so tired of trying to live this lie. Looking back (forward?) on the five years I alone remembered, every time things went pear shaped, it was because I had lied to John. Maybe it was time to give this honesty lark a try. 

John said something I had missed. "Sorry, what?" 

"I said, 'What's it about then?'" Then, as I hesitated: "It's fine if you don't want to tell me, but if you want to talk, I'm glad to listen." 

I huffed out a mirthless laugh. "You'll section me." 

"Haven't yet," he quipped. 

"Right." I drew a deep breath and plunged forward. "Something impossible has happened, and I don't understand how or why. I've --I've traveled back in time. I'm back from the year 2015. And I've made a mistake. With the best of intentions, I promise, I was trying to save us both some pain and grief, but the conseque--" 

"Whoa! Whoa, Sherlock, stop right there. Let's slow this down a notch." John studied my face searchingly. "Is it an experiment? You're trying to see how outrageous a story you can get me to believe?"

I shook my head, and something in my demeanour must have struck a chord, because his expression softened. "That's not it, is it? Whatever this is, it's very real to you." I cringed inwardly at that turn of phrase. "Sherlock --" he paused a moment, gathering his thoughts. "Time travel is impossible. I know you know that, because you said it yourself. What's that thing you say, we eliminate the impossible? So we know that didn't happen. This must be something else." 

One has to appreciate the irony, John lecturing me on logic using my own precepts. "Any ideas?" I asked. 

"Eight," he deadpanned, mimicking my own response to Scotland Yard when they ask the same question. "Has this type of disorientation ever happened to you before?" 

I started to say no, then stopped, considering. Time is elastic in my mind palace; I am perfectly capable of immersing myself in an alternate reality where days and weeks can be lived heedless of the plodding clock in the real world. I had done it before, and in fact, it had been _this_ reality: John and I, warm and safe at home, and nothing bad had ever happened. Was that it? Had I got lost inside my mind palace? Was this...? 

"Is this Serbia?" I gasped. My temples were throbbing and a curtain of black dots rippled in front of my eyes. I heard John's voice as if it were underwater: 

"Serbia? Sherlock, this is London. You're home, with me." 

My laugh was a broken hiccough. "That's what I want you to say."

"It's true,' John averred. 

"Is it? Are you really here? Because I don't know..." My fingers found my hair, and I tugged hard, trying to ground myself. "I don't know what's real." Oh, I should never have said that out loud. If there were any chance at all this was real, I was headed straight for a close observation ward with that admission. "No hospital," I whispered. "Please, please, no hospital, please don't..." 

"Sherlock, you're panicking. You need to breathe. Here, breathe with me." He took my hand and laid it flat against his chest, covering it with his own hand. 

_But was it John's hand? In the future, John had beaten me. How could I have imagined such a thing, unless..."_

"John wouldn't hurt me," I rasped. 

"That's right, I wouldn't." 

"Then which one are you? Anton? Anton's pretty short." I shoved him away and spat out a suggestion in Serbian that his mother enjoys sexual congress with goats. The only reaction I provoked was confusion. 

_Of course,_ said Mycroft in my mind, _your brain will produce whatever you need to see to maintain the illusion. You must be very near death to be so desperate. I'd advise you to relax and enjoy this while you can. Much less painful that way._

"Sure, why not?" I said aloud. I walked shakily into the sitting room, where I threw myself on the sofa. There was a loose thread on the armrest, and I twiddled with it as I spoke. "I really do have a magnificent brain, you know, to be able to imagine all this in so much detail. I'd ask you to box it up and send it to the Royal Society for dissection when you're done with me, but I doubt you'd comply."

"John" gaped at me and shook his head. "You're really scaring me now. I'm calling your brother." 

"Please do. I'm going to be dead soon, so I should say goodbye to as many people as I can conjure up." 

John walked away so I couldn't hear the phone call, but he must have made it sound urgent, because Mycroft appeared in a gratifyingly short time. 

"Brother mine, what is going on?" 

"End game, apparently," I replied. "The cracks were showing. Everything was getting rather bizarre and outre. That's why this happened, isn't it? System reset, to a time when everything was safe and warm and ... cosy." There was nothing for it; I had to laugh. "Do you know, I actually thought I had traveled back in time. Even though I know that's impossible. 

"You thought you had traveled in time?" 

"That's what I said. Please don't make me repeat myself." A sudden upswell of sentiment washed over me. I sighed regretfully. "I wish you were really here, Mykie. I'd tell you not to blame yourself. This one's on me; I was being reckless." 

"I don't know what you mean," Mycroft insisted, "but I need you to focus now. When you say you traveled in time, what exactly did you experience?" 

"Exactly?" I tipped my head back and studied the ceiling, considering. Eh, play along, why not? "On _exactly_ August 18th, 2015, I fell asleep on this sofa, and I woke up on _exactly_ April 23, 2010." 

"And in the interim, you lived five years, one day after another, in sequence?"

Why was he hammering on this? "Yes, one day after another; five plus years of days. I could write a journal if you want. Why?" 

"That's ... unexpected." 

A small hope began to bloom in my chest. _Maybe not Serbia._ "Saying it's unexpected implies you expected something else. What's going on, Mycroft?" 

"I shall have to ask Dr. Watson to excuse us." 

"No," I protested. "He stays." 

Mycroft glared at me. "This is a matter of national security." 

I snorted a laugh at that. "If you had any doubts about his loyalty, he never would have moved in. Just spill it." 

My brother faced John. "This is considerably above your pay grade, Dr. Watson. I am relying on your discretion," he said in a tone that implied that if John were to be indiscreet, he would find himself naked in Antarctica. John nodded once, sharply, and Mycroft began his explanation.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Errrk... I had to make an edit. If you read the last chapter before I posted this one, the only change is I added the words "in Serbian" to the sentence, "I spat out a suggestion in Serbian that his mother enjoys sexual congress with goats." Which explains why John was confused rather than insulted.

My brother commenced rather obliquely. "I'll start by saying that my people are investigating the intelligence you provided, Sherlock. it's remarkably accurate. Some small details don't match up, but they're insignificant. You say this intel is the result of information you gathered over the course of five years?" 

"Apparently." 

"Amazing. And you said toward the end of the five years, things were getting bizarre?" 

"Ye-e-es," I grated impatiently. 

"Yes, that fits." He saw me about to explode and moved it along. "You're familiar with Baskerville?" 

"Military research," I bit out. "Top top top secret." 

"Yes. One of the current research projects has to do with quantum mechanics. You've heard of Schroedinger's cat?" 

Who hasn't? I recited, "Cat in a sealed box with poison that can be released at any random moment. The cat is both dead and alive until the box is opened, at which point, the act of observation causes the probability wave to collapse into one of the two states." 

"Very good," my brother intoned, as if he were grading me. "The project based on this precept involves suspending the quantum state of a neural network. Do you recall, I came over the evening of April 22nd. We had tea." 

"Mine was too sweet," I remembered. Realisation dawned. "You were masking a taste. You dosed me with something." 

"Wait a minute." John glared at Mycroft. "A neural network; that's a brain. You dosed your own brother with a potion cooked up by some mad scientists to faff about with his _brain?"_

I would hardly characterise it as 'faffing about.' The project's been ongoing for three years now; and we have conducted extensive human trials. No lasting harm has ever been recorded." 

"But what's the purpose?" I demanded. 

"A brain in such a state is able to follow a probabilistic pathway independent of external stimuli. In layman's terms, it achieves precognition." Mycroft gazed at me appraisingly. "Although experiencing a full five years of such compelling reality that the dissolution of the state is perceived as time travel -- that had never happened before. Most of our subjects reported only vivid dreams; flashes of insight. You even met on of our subjects, I believe: a graphic novelist."

"The Geek Interpreter," John blurted. 

"We solved that," I objected. 

"You solved the cover story," Mycroft smirked. 

All of which was interesting, but still begged the burning question: "Why me?" 

"There was no malicious intent, I assure you. As trails progressed, it became obvious that neuroatypical people were far more susceptible to the effect. Oh, don't look so stung; Dr. Watson knows already." 

I glanced over at John and saw that it was true. He said, "It's only obvious because I live with you, but yeah. Not surprised." 

"The problem," Mycroft continued, "is that our subjects reported events that were accurate, but mundane. A traffic accident here, an unexpected guest there...we needed a subject who was both neuroatypical and likely to foresee the types of things of interest to MI6. That made for a very short list." 

"It was completely unethical to do this without his consent," John protested. 

"But he couldn't consent," my brother replied. "The act of observation collapses the probability wave, remember? If he had known what was going on..." 

"I would have been observing myself," I picked up the thread. "Second-guessing myself. I would have known it wasn't real, so I wouldn't have felt the urgency to make the choices I did in the heat of the moment. The data would have been compromised, if not useless."

"Precisely." He smiled at me. I didn't smile back. 

"You said that it fit that towards the end, things were getting bizarre." 

"Yes. As the effect dissipates, it shifts from the cognitive centres to the unconscious mind. The data may still be accurate, but it's interpreted in increasingly dreamlike symbolism." 

"Or nightmarish," I suggested. 

"Nightmares have been reported, yes." 

I sat back, mulling it over. Not time travel, not insanity, not Serbia. The relief was exquisite, but the violation... 

"You must never do this again," I demanded. 

"We can't, now that you know about it." 

I wasn't so sure about that. Actually, I could see Mycroft's viewpoint. From a purely scientific standpoint, this was fascinating. And it did result in useful intelligence. Our familial connexion was incidental. 

But I still felt betrayed. 

"Mycroft," I said, 'during those five years I thought I lived, I saw how you care for me. I saw you risk your life for me, twice. So I'm probably going to forgive you. But it will take time." 

"I understand." He stood up and reached for his umbrella. 

"Two things before you go. First: Eurus. Her weapon is her voice. Disarm her. Laryngectomy." 

Mycroft looked shocked. "Rather the nuclear option." 

I shook my head. "I've seen the hell she can unleash. The specific things I foresaw won't happen now, but _something_ will. Unless you silence her." 

"It'll be difficult to arrange..."

"You'll get it done." He would, too; I could read in his face his reluctant acceptance of the necessity. I continued: "Second thing: the Baskerville project -- top top top secret. So I'll need a therapist with an appropriate security clearance." Mycroft's eyebrows reached for his hairline and John frankly gaped at me. "I have five years of phantasms to lay to rest. I'm not even going to pretend I can do it on my own." 

"I'll email you a list to choose from." 

"Thank you. Now leave and don't come back until I invite you." 

With a polite nod, my brother turned on his heel and exited our flat. As soon as he was gone, John was on his feet, venting emotion. 

"That self-absorbed, arrogant jackass! How dare he take those kind of liberties with your brain, no less?" 

"No lasting harm," I quoted. 

"Bollocks! You've been traumatised! I'd never seen you like that; you really thought you were losing your mind, didn't you?" 

"Yes," I conceded, "but I think he did us a favor, actually. A glimpse down the road not taken." 

"It sounds like it must have been a pretty rough road," John commiserated. "What was all that about Serbia?" 

I shied away from that topic. "John. I don't want to give you a blow for blow of my experience. Not because I'm lying or trying to hide something from you, but because I don't want it to colour our experience of this reality as it unfolds. I don't want you second-guessing yourself, or comparing the two. God knows, I'll be doing that enough for the both of us. But I would like to share with you some things I've learned." John nodded encouragement, and I continued.

"I've learned that however intriguing the puzzles; however thrilling the chases, what we do is not a game. People die. I'm not about to give it up, but I'm going to be a much easier sell from now on when you want to call for backup or take reasonable precautions." 

"Good! That's good." His enthusiasm made me smile. 

"Thought you'd like that. Also, I've learned that alone does not protect me. Friends protect each other, and I use the plural because I learned I have more friends than I thought. I've learned that friendship is precious, especially yours, John. You have my oath that I will not lie to you or leave you behind. Whatever this reality has to offer us, we'll face it together, shoulder to shoulder, for as long as you consent to work with me." 

My blogger was staring at me with open astonishment. "I am dying to know what you experienced." 

"Don't fish, John. One more thing." I beckoned him to follow me to my bedroom, where I pried up the loose floorboard and retrieved the small box. "Please dispose of this." 

John opened the box and his face fell as he saw my kit and the baggie of white powder. "So you've been using." 

"No, I'm clean," I assured him. "But I hadn't ruled it out. This is me ruling it out." 

John snapped the box shut and followed me out. I chuckled at a sudden thought. "I'm going to be very nervous five years from now."

"You think this thing would go in another five year increment if he dosed you again?" 

"Seems reasonable." 

But five years passed, then six, and midway through the seventh, I finally stopped waiting for the shoe to drop. John never did marry, and we fell into an easy domesticity. I had been concerned he would be disappointed I could no longer be the same reckless madman he had cast his lot with a few months previous, but he confessed he liked this more prudent, slightly more mature (he emphasized "slightly") version of me. 

Just as I had foreseen, John's blog proved immensely popular. I deliberately turned down any case that had crossed my path "before", but we had no lack of tantalizing puzzles to occupy ourselves. Encouraged by the blog's success, John started writing a series of books based loosely -- _very_ loosely -- on our adventures. He enjoys weaving science fiction elements into his stories, which makes them attractive to Hollywood. So far, he's sold movie rights to two, for what can only be described as an obscene amount of money. 

Not to be outdone, I've also turned my blog into a book using examples from our cases to illuminate principles of evidence gathering, deductive reasoning, and the like. I anticipated it would be used primarily as a forensics text, and was shocked when it cracked the best seller's list. Appearances to the contrary notwithstanding, it seems the general masses are interested in critical thinking. There may be hope for humanity yet.

Three years after what I think of as the Experience, I fell off a roof, only two stories high this time. I wish I could say it was part of a daring chase, but in fact, it was a moment of sheer stupidity. I was examining the roof for a means of ingress to solve a locked-room murder and neglected to note the ice. (In my defence, it was a thin layer over black, almost impossible to see in the shade.) I landed on pavement with all my weight on my right leg, which did not break as much as shatter. Indeed, the doctors at first despaired of saving it, but Mycroft called in the finest orthopaedic surgeons he could find, and in one of life's ironies, it is now I who limp along with a cane. In fact, it became a tradition for grateful clients to gift me with unusual walking sticks, so I now have quite a collection. It's a much better trademark than that silly ear hat. 

Which brings us to the present day, twenty-seven years after the Experience. It's a clear, early summer day, warm but not humid, perfect for sitting on the bench in the back yard of our cottage in Sussex Downs, watching my bees pollinate the clover. After a while, John comes to collect me for dinner. His bulldog, Gladstone, gambols alongside us as we walk back to the house. 

You'd think I'd get bored by the life of a country squire, but the truth is, I don't get bored anymore. My injury forcibly cured my adrenaline addiction, but underneath that was a sense of deep satisfaction in doing work that makes a real contribution. The years gone by have been filled with that satisfaction, as well as the delight of constantly learning new things and true happiness engendered by an ever-deepening friendship. 

It's with a sense of quiet joy that John and I sit out on our porch after dinner, looking westward. The sun is just beginning to set. 

It's going to be glorious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Didja see them? Didja see the fluffy unicorns?
> 
> I wasn't originally going to include an explanation, but the Sherlock in my head threw a four-star strop and flatly refused to be any part of a fic where the major plot device is basically magic. Fortunately, the mad scientists of Baskerville stepped forward. My degree is in Biology, so all I know about quantum mechanics comes from articles in the popular press and The Big Bang Theory. So yeah, I'm talking out of my posterior orifice, but hey, it gets the job done.
> 
> Lemme know what you think! I live for kudos and comments (Well, no, I live for my grandchildren, but man, feedback is fun!)


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